Fathers
by JackOwens1860
Summary: Dick is a boy of seemingly infinite patience when it comes to Bruce's lack of humanity in day-to-day life. However, when Father's Day is upon them, Dick's patience runs out. Dick's P.O.V    UPDATE: NEW CHAPTER ADDED! Variant on the same theme. Damian takes centre stage.
1. Chapter 1

**Fathers**

I hate Father's Day. My dad is dead and has been for a while. Bruce won't let me buy him anything for the holiday. He tells me he doesn't feel like it's appropriate, seeing as he's not my dad, just my guardian. Bruce's dad is dead and has been for decades. He still feels his presence though. This isn't his house, not according to him. This is his _father's_ house. His office isn't his office. His study isn't his study. All that he possesses belongs to his father. His whole world belongs to a dead man, someone I think he can barely even remember. It's creepy and sort of upsetting at the same time. After all this time, he still walks in his father's shadow. He's entirely his own man, has built his family's empire up to fortunes I doubt his dad could have even imagined and done it all by himself. But it doesn't matter, not to him. All his charity efforts, all his hard work mean nothing to him; his father would have done more…always done more. Privately I think it's ridiculous. I loved my dad and I idolized him when I was younger, but I understood immediately when I lost him and my mom that he was just a man. Bruce seems to think his dad was some kind of god. Like I said, creepy.

It's late on the third Sunday of June. Father's Day. Bruce is in _his_ study; I don't care what he says, it is _his_ study. I knock on the door and wait. His voice isn't even muffled by the barrier between us.

"Enter."

I don't go straight in. He doesn't like that, even from Alfie. I open the door just enough for my head to poke round the side. The big guy is sat behind the antique desk, looking at some dull statistics or other. The only light in the room is coming from the reading lamp on his desk. It hides everything but his hands in the darkness.

"Yes Dick?" He asks with the kind of softness I remember my own dad speaking to me with. He's good with kids. He is. I answer casually enough.

"Check my assignment for me?"

He doesn't even hesitate. "Of course. Come in. Turn the light on." He is busy, I know. But I also know he always has time for me, especially on this date. Mother's day is the same. He knows I'm lonely and sad on these days because he is too. We both miss our parents, whether it's been a few years or a couple of decades. It still hurts. It still hurts.

When I switch the light on, the whole room is different. Everything is lighter, less spooky. When I'm with him in this place, I don't think Bruce can feel his dad's spirit as much. He's less haunted. Whenever I find him in the dark like this, I always imagine when I switch on the light I'll find a monster in his place. I imagine him with blood-shot eyes, wild hair and being unshaven, as if he hasn't slept or eaten or washed for days. I imagine him half-crazed over his parents' deaths and raving about his guilt like his torment had literally driven him insane. I honestly scare the crap out of myself just thinking about this. That's why I always hesitate in flicking the switch. But none of it is true. I keep telling myself it will never be like that with him. I can't convince myself though. There's always a chance…

Bruce looks like he always does in this room, impeccable. His hair is clean and styled. His face is freshly shaved and moisturized. His eyes easily balance intense focus without appearing strained by the effort. He is relaxed in his seat. As great as his reverence for his father is, the guy seems most at peace sitting in that chair in this study. I guess he and his dad are very alike, like me and my dad. He gestures to the seat in front of the desk. He does not entertain anyone in this room. Alfie doesn't sit down in this room. The high-backed armchair in front of the desk is _my_ chair and mine only. It makes me feel special and kind of privileged. I hand him my homework folder for Chemistry. Normally, I just get Alfie to give it the once over. Bruce and I only do this on special occasions, like tonight. He is silent for almost ten minutes. He reads and re-reads it several times.

"This is very good work, Dick. I am impressed." He offers whilst handing it back to me. He is not humouring me. He doesn't spare people's feelings if the work is not up to standard so this is high praise indeed. I nod graciously. I want his approval. It makes me feel warm inside when he likes my work, like my dad did when I managed a great performance at the circus.

"Thanks. How's work going?" I ask putting the folder on my lap. Bruce doesn't do that usual dad thing when they want to know why you want to know something; he just answers. And he answers concisely.

"Good. My meeting tomorrow should be uneventful. Have you enjoyed your weekend?"

He hasn't been around much this weekend. He gave me a break from my duties as Robin and went on patrol solo. I wasn't mad at him. Sometimes Bruce needs some space, time to think about things without some kid jabbering in his ear all night. Judging from the way he's sitting and behaving, he suffered no injuries whatsoever. I don't think he ever gets injured when he's on the streets alone. I guess he doesn't have to think about anything or anyone else but himself. I feel unwanted sometimes. But not often.

"Yeah. I went to the movies on Friday night with a couple of friends then I went ice-skating with Alice Rhodes on Saturday and then I played a little B-ball in the park today." If I wanted I could sit there for the next two hours and tell him everything about my weekend. I could literally explain every stupid, little detail of the last few days and he would not say a damn word to stop me. He would listen to me without any discomfort. He likes it when I tell stories, when I tell jokes, when I theorize on cases with him. Tonight I don't feel like talking about that stuff. I have something more important to ask him.

"Bruce, I bought this for you." I place a box on the edge of the desk. It had been in my back pocket all weekend. "I want you to take it."

The big guy regards the box without any kind of expression. I know he doesn't like it. I know he is about to object to its existence and ask me to return it. I won't let him tell me so. He is about to articulate a polite rejection only for me to beat him there.

"No. I will not take this back. I just won't. It's Father's Day. You deserve something for everything you've done. This is it." I slide the box across the desk top. It comes to rest at Bruce's hands. The box looks tiny compared to them. So freaking tiny. He tries to utter another refusal and again, I beat him there. "You know how stubborn I am. I'm not leaving until you give in." I fold my arms and dare him to refuse me now. There is deathly silence. After a few minutes, he speaks.

"I see. You are a very unusual fourteen-year-old, aren't you?" He says tapping the box with his finger, "Most boys your age don't even know this holiday exists. Why is it so important that I accept this gift?"

"Because I love you. And if you don't accept this gift, I may cry." There was probably no need to lie about bursting into tears; I think reminding him how much he means to me was probably enough. Maybe. Bruce doesn't believe I'll start weeping anyway. He knows me too well; I don't shatter easily.

"Dick, I am not your father."

"Not literally. Just because I call you by your first name and have a different last name, doesn't mean you're not some kind of dad to me."

"I just do not feel comfortable accepting such a gift from you."

"Tough luck. I'm sick of spending Father's Day by myself, pretending I don't have one. You're right here. Take the gift."

"Dick…"

"Take it or I'll freaking scream right now."

This frankly pathetic threat actually makes him relent. He sighs and opens the box. He regards the tie and matching cufflinks with a weird expression, like he's suffering from powerful nostalgia. He says nothing. I speak anyway. "I figured you could wear them to work tomorrow. Just remember that, if anyone asks where you got them from, say that they're a Father's Day present from your…son." I almost said 'ward'. This man is not just my guardian, not even close to it. I figure as soon as he realizes that, we can be closer. Even closer than we are right now. Maybe closer than I was with my dad. Closer than he was with his father. That's what I want. That's all I want. All I want.

Bruce stands up and puts the box reluctantly in his trouser pocket. "This means you won." He tells me with a small smile. I smile back. Winning with this guy makes you feel ten-feet tall. "It's late. We should both retire for the night I feel." I nod in agreement and stand up too. He's still behind the desk. When he offers me his hand to shake, I scoff.

"Big hug or you're not leaving this room." I say resolutely. This is the most demanding I think I've been with him, ever. I feel confident at the moment, able to make him do anything I like. He rounds the desk and stands in front of me, still towering way out of my reach like a skyscraper. We stand like that for almost a minute and then I get tired of him teasing me like this. I latch my arms round his waist and bury my cheek in his chest. I feel his hands press round my back moments later. I am safe and I am loved and I am happy. Bruce is able to do this by the simplest of gestures. One day, I won't have to force these moments out of him. One day he'll just do them automatically.

"You're a good boy, Dick. A very good boy." He tells me without relinquishing his hold. "Your father would be proud of you." I know this already. I knew my dad very well. Bruce needs to hear something similar.

"Your dad would be amazed by the sort of man you've become." The big man stiffens immediately, not expecting me to say anything like that in response. I hug him tighter. "It's okay. I love you. Everything's okay I promise." He relaxes again. He brings me closer to his body and squeezes me. He doesn't say anything to reply to my statement. He really doesn't need to. I know he still walks in his dad's shadow and is scared of admitting he now casts the longest shadow of all in this city. Someday he'll realize what he is and who he's become is beyond anyone's expectations, even his father's. He lets me go a short time later.

"It still hurts, Dick."

"I know. I miss my dad too."

"Thank you for your gift."

"Thank you for everything."

He nods his head and gestures to the door. "There are no more tolls to pay, I take it?" I shake my head.

"Nope. You're free to go."

"Come on then. Off to bed."

We walk out of the study together, down the corridor and up the grand staircase. For the first time since I've been here he does not pause to look at his parents. He walks straight past the portrait with his hand on my shoulder. We reach my room first. His hand falls off my shoulder and is back in his pocket.

"Good night, Dick."

"Night Bruce."

Happy Father's Day.


	2. Chapter 2

**Fathers 2**

**Author's Note: Here is a third person experiment. I believe it makes scant impact on the overall dynamic of the writing showcased. A Damian and Bruce father/son moment set amongst the backdrop of a late night in the cave. Enjoy.**

Bruce Wayne was in the cave. The sight of the billionaire hunched over an over-sized computer screen pouring through vast quantities of raw data was not an uncommon one. If he did not do this work, he could not construct intelligence on criminal gangs and activities and if he could not construct intelligence, there would be no action whatsoever. It was therefore a necessity of his to devote much free time to this process. He had been sorting the data acquired over the last six-week period for nearly four hours when he was interrupted.

"Father?" The man turned his head slowly to be met with the sight of a ten-year-old boy dressed for bed. He swivelled his chair to face him.

"You should be in bed, Damian. We agreed on a midnight curfew; it is now almost three in the morning. Did you have a nightmare?" Damian shook his head.

"I don't have nightmares, Father. Mother made sure of that." The boy's high pitch and intonation was that of a ten-year-old, but the steely tone and graveness of his expression was that of someone far older and far more bitter. Bruce's expression had yet to appear; his face was still blank.

"I see. So what is the purpose of your visit?"

"I haven't seen you in almost two weeks. I thought it would be 'civilised' to say 'hello' upon your return." Bruce nodded in understanding. He had been conducting business in Europe for the past twelve days, tracking down some unfavourable characters from Gotham. His decision to leave Damian in Alfred's care and impose radio silence seemed to have not been appreciated by the boy; the man could hear the spite underlying his son's every word.

"I apologize, son. I hope my absence did not upset you too much." Bruce offered without getting to his feet. Damian took a few steps forward, his bare feet padding mutely over the stone floor.

"I was not upset, Father, merely annoyed you did not think to include me in your plans. I was under the false impression we were a team." Damian's anger could be heard rising but still Bruce's face did not alter. He remained stoic in the face of an imminent tantrum. He held his son's gaze with intense focus to show he considered this conversation important.

"Do you consider me a bad father in that respect?" The man inquired. Damian took yet another few steps towards him. The boy now stood only a few inches away from his father. Even seated, Bruce's face was able to look down on his son's.

"You are cold and distant. But you are still better than my mother. The margins are very close however." Bruce smiled at him, the first time he had shown any genuine emotion in the past few weeks. Damian remained serious. The man reached up and placed a huge hand on the boy's cheek, practically engulfing half his face, and stroked it gently. Damian made no move against such contact.

"I think I can widen those margins somewhat. Come sit." Bruce said taking his hand back and patting his lap. Damian seemed only resistant to the idea for a moment. Despite his training and independence, he was still only ten years old. He sat down in the man's lap and lay back against Bruce's chest. Bruce crossed his arms over Damian's torso, holding him loosely, and then bounced him up and down a few times. The boy was relaxed and quiet throughout and altogether gave the impression of being contented by his father's behaviour. Bruce swivelled the chair back to face the computer screen, but did not relinquish his grip on Damian. Still holding the youth, the man leaned forward and tapped a single button on the keyboard. There was a whirr as some part of the machine was given life it had not before. A female computerized voice announced itself.

"_Transition to voice command inputs complete. Please speak to initiate desired function."_

"Run programme Echo Two. Switch to mute until completion." Bruce instructed the system. The voice acknowledged immediately.

"_Scan in progress."_

The two of them sat there like that, watching the computer analyse and compile the data, for nearly ten minutes without uttering a word. They were rarely this intimate with one another and it was something both wished could be different. Their relationship had always been strained in some fashion or other. Eventually, Damian took hold of one of his father's hands from around his shoulder and held it up for study. Bruce watched the boy turn the hand back and forth before pressing his own hand against it for comparison; it was less than half the size.

"Do you think I shall grow to be as big as you, Father?" Damian asked as they interlocked their fingers. Bruce manoeuvred both hands around effortlessly.

"Perhaps. My final height is determined by genetics so it is likely you share those genes with me."

"How many times have you broken this hand?" The boy said pushing back against it and finding no give whatsoever; it was wall-like. Bruce shrugged but did not hesitate to give an answer.

"I have broken my hand sixteen times."

"And how many criminals have you hurt with it?"

"I'm not sure exactly. An exact figure would be very difficult to tally." Damian seemed to accept this and nodded, shaking his hand loose from his father's and letting it snake across his torso again.

"Is there a reason we don't engage in this behaviour more often, Father? Is it because you don't trust me to reciprocate it?" Bruce let out a brief sigh before reaching up and stroking the boy's hair with the back of his hand. The movement was remarkably soft and delicate given the size and history of the hand conducting it.

"I know you love me, Damian."

"Do you indeed? And how would you possibly know that given I see more of Drake and Todd than I do of you?" The boy did not bother turning round to face his father when issuing this slur. The man did not cease stroking his hair.

"Because I'm your father."

"Apparently you're also THEIR father as well. The way you run after them all the time is sickening." Bruce privately rolled his eyes as the same old tale of blood being thicker than water began to rush forth. It was Damian's favourite counterattack to such a sensitive situation. Rather than try to redirect the conversation, Bruce fed him the necessary line.

"I understand, son. It's only natural for you to be jealous of your brothers."

"They are NOT my brothers, Father! They're street kids and orphans and have no business associating with us!" Damian's voice was beginning to border on hysterical, a change that was always startlingly rapid; he had been calm but a moment earlier. Now the boy had spat out his basest appraisal of his step-brothers, Bruce was able to wade in with his counterattack on the subject.

"And do you feel the same way about Dick?" This question, no matter how many times he seemed to repeat it, never failed to quell the anger and resentment Damian felt. This time was no exception. His contempt for everyone else was lost on Dick. During his tenure as Batman, Dick had obtained an unheard level of affinity from Damian that the boy had never bestowed on anyone else, including his own father. When he spoke again, the boy had reverted to a more level tone of voice.

"No…Dick is…Dick's different."

"I see. Do you feel better for having told me all that?"

"Somewhat. Pennyworth has often posited I should try and share my feelings with you, no matter how negative." Bruce withdrew his hand only for Damian to silently protest it with a sharp glance. The man resumed stroking his son's hair while offering a retort.

"Do find Alfred something of a busybody as well, son?" Damian sneered at the insinuation in clear agreement.

"I find him to be in possession of a highly unprofessional nature given he is supposedly a servant in this household, but his ideas are not always flawed."

"I only ask because he recommended I be more physical with you in these situations. The hair-stroking was his idea." Bruce admitted. The boy sighed lethargically.

"No, Father, it was YOUR idea. While I appreciate your efforts to make it appear we both take our emotional cues from a butler, your ability to act like a parent is far superior to my ability to act like a child. You choose to be physical with me because your three previous children have taught you it is the best way to elicit a response." The man smiled before drawing attention to something he found amusing.

"I never used to bounce my other children."

"I like the bouncing. And the hair-stroking. And your holding me. Do NOT tell Dick and especially do not inform Drake. I would only need one more excuse in order to kill him." It was never a joke with this boy; he genuinely had designs on killing Tim Drake, something Bruce was quick to curb with a change of pace.

"Yes, I would also hate anyone else to know I liked to cuddle you as well." It was exactly the kind of remark and language Damian deplored, that of an affectionate parent, and quickly soured his mood and tongue.

"Bravo on your penetrating sarcasm, Father, but I was only referring to the fact that, unlike you, I still have to prove myself to some members of this so-called 'family'. Having them know I enjoyed being bounced on someone's knee like a six-year-old would only serve as a setback." The remark just sounded juvenile despite its severity of deliverance. The man sighed.

"Do you never embrace being a ten-year-old, Damian?" Bruce asked. Damian scoffed derisively.

"Do you ever embrace middle-age, Father? How old are you, somewhere in your forties? You should be playing bingo and boring people with the other geriatric members of this society." Whenever he had exhausted his conversational abilities or was unsure of how to answer a question, Damian resorted to slander and insults to restore his position of power. It irritated a great many people, but not his father who had grown more than accustomed to its usage.

"I do. It's all part of being a philanthropist." Damian reversed his position so his body was now facing the man. He propped his elbows against Bruce's chest, leaned forward and sighed.

"You're not funny, Father." Bruce disagreed.

"Yes, I am. You just have no sense of humour." Damian stared deeply into his father's eyes and looked as though he was having trouble articulating his thoughts at that moment, or maybe just reluctant. When he spoke there was a semblance of embarrassment underpinning all his words.

"I missed you while you were away." He said it with a frown etched in his face, as if unable to contemplate how such a sentiment ever managed to pass his lips. Bruce nodded, closing his arms slowly around the boy's back.

"I can see that. I missed you too, son." Damian allowed himself to be pressed against his father's chest in a prolonged embrace, relishing the opportunity to be so close to the man.

"This had better not be a one-off occasion, Father. If this is your way of telling me you're departing for the foreseeable future I will disown you." Bruce smirked at the boy's curt tone of voice even in such a tender moment. He briefly ruffled Damian's hair.

"No. I am hoping this type of relationship will persevere until you at least hit puberty. After that milestone, I'll reassess the situation."

"Good luck with that, Father. I'm certain you will need all the help you can get when that day appears."

"I relish the challenge."


End file.
